


The Darkness Calls Me Murderer

by seasalticecream32



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:22:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4312089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasalticecream32/pseuds/seasalticecream32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty's gone. Sherlock just has to remember that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Darkness Calls Me Murderer

Sherlock had never fancied himself a skittish person. He’d always been brave, even as a child.

Mycroft hated it about him.

If only his  _brother dear_  could see him now.

Sherlock pressed the palms of his hands into his sockets, trying to take a deep breath. No matter how desperately he gulped in air, he couldn’t seem to force the images away.

Flashes of red, scraps of flesh and bone, mouths opened wide in angry screams. It all hovered like the taste of dirt in his mouth.

And it didn’t matter if he opened his eyes. It didn’t matter if he forced himself to breathe in his nose and out his mouth, or if he placed his head between his knees or if he counted to a hundred. He’d tried them all before, it never helped.

It was dark here. Everything felt too small. Old and new scars ached in the shifting shadows of his room. He smelled dirt. He felt the press of pine and heard the thump and scatter of earth on his head. He gulped in his panic and found no relief.

He’d fallen asleep in his Belstaff again. His legs had tangled in the long tail and his arms had twisted in the sleeves. He was hot and covered in sweat and his stomach twisted in knots and his lungs burned because he could _not **breathe**_.

“Mrs. Hudson!” He shouted, but it came out too quiet in the loud roaring of panic in his ears. “Mrs. Hudson!”

He heard something crash in the kitchen, a scurrying sound across his living room floor, and then marvelous light flooded his room as Mrs. Hudson’s gray head popped in the doorway.

“Goodness, are you still in bed Sherlock? It’s nearly four in the afternoon.”

He didn’t answer right away, but he knew she wouldn’t care. She was used to him ignoring her. With the darkness gone, he could move his limbs again. Suddenly he could feel the air in his lungs, could feel the way his lips had begun to tingle with his panic. He stretched out carefully, pulling himself to sit at the edge of his bed. He paused to compose his face and square his shoulders before he turned towards her.

“Where’s Molly?” His throat was dry. He forced himself to sit still as Mrs. Hudson came to pat his shoulders. His shirt stuck to his back, and his hands twitched with the urge to pull off his coat.

“She said she’d be back in a bit. Not to worry dear, she’ll be safe. She said to tell you she went with Mary.” Mrs. Hudson beamed him a smile and went about picking up a pile of laundry.

Sherlock wanted to move and shower and gather himself, but his mind folded in on itself. It poked and prodded and picked at the dark corners in his mind, trying to solve an unsolvable problem.

It had been years, and no amount of medication or therapy or time had run away the fear.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to feel the swell of panic. He smelled wood and dirt and darkness and the absolute terror of _toosmalltoosmalltoosmall._

He hadn’t meant to leap from the bed, but once he did, there was no stopping the rush from the room. He didn’t pause at the bathroom door, did not stop to gather himself or straighten his jacket or run his fingers through his hair. He burst through the door in time enough to run straight into the surprised body of his wife. Without thought he moved beyond her and down the stairs leading to his room, gripping the iron fence tightly as he gulped in the cold, open air. There was still enough sun that his street was dull grey and quiet.

_Breathe._

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you ok?”

He straightened quickly and turned back to Molly, where she stood at the door with bags in her hands and a brightly colored jacket nearly swallowing her whole. The brightness of her, and her smile, and the gentle way she reached for him pierced the fog of memory his too-sharp mind brought back with too-real clarity. He felt his lips twitch into something, probably more a grimace than a smile, but she curled her fingers around his wrist anyway.

“Let’s go inside, ok?” She tugged him in to the same house he’d just run from, anchoring him to her and talking animatedly about her day.

Despite having just woke up, he felt tired in his bones and his mind was fuzzy with exhaustion. Her words ran over him like smooth water, like warm light.

“God, Sherlock. You smell horrible. Didn’t you take a shower after your case yesterday?”

“Must have forgot,” he mumbled, and she shot him a look that told him his voice wasn’t as inflected as he’d meant it to be.

“Let’s get a shower. And then we can watch some crap telly, ok?” Molly said it loud enough for Mrs. Hudson to ‘eep’ and scramble from the room with a quirky smile and red cheeks. The moment the door clicked closed, Molly stepped closer to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “He’s gone, Sherlock,” she whispered against his skin, before she stepped back and headed to the bathroom.

He knew he should follow her immediately, and clean off the smell of ash and salt from his skin, but he took a moment to repeat the words over in his head.

_He’s gone._

_He’s gone._

_He’s gone, Sherlock._

And with that, he could brave the small space of the bathroom, and he could brave the feel of his shoulders bumping against the smooth tile, and he could handle the way his light flickers.

Moriarty was stuck in a box, and Sherlock had put him there.

“He’s gone, Sherlock,” he whispered. And then he went to join his wife.


End file.
